


We've Made Our Way to Here

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Gavin looks at the Vagabond, and instead of keeping his distance, moves closer.Takes to poking and prodding him the way he does the rest of the crew, drawing him in with random thoughts and questions because the man is adelight.





	We've Made Our Way to Here

Gavin looks at the Vagabond, and instead of keeping his distance, moves closer. 

Takes to poking and prodding him the way he does the rest of the crew, drawing him in with random thoughts and questions because the man is a _delight_.

Aloof and menacing, living up to his reputation as the Vagabond. 

And under it, he's fascinating, bit of a puzzle Gavin can't just leave alone.

To his surprise, the Vagabond bites back. Argues Gavin's thoughts and questions, bickering and bantering and engaging and it's lovely.

The others have long grown used to Gavin and the way his mind doesn't quite work the way most people's do. Familiar with the odd twists and turns it takes, but the Vagabond is new, he doesn't know, and Gavin loves it.

Loves being a little troll just to see him get riled up, _angry_ because Gavin keeps insisting he's right and the Vagabond is wrong, and damn the science of it while the others watch in varying degrees of amusement.

He snaps and snarls and utters low, menacing threats when they argue or when Gavin pokes and prods him, hoping to get a reaction, but it's all for show. Bark worse than his bite and all that, and oddly enough, he begins to - 

Not relax, around them, but perhaps let his guard down. 

Bit by bit, the longer he stays with the crew, gets to know them. Trust they won't turn on him, betray him, and it goes both ways.

Michael losing that wary, protective look to him when the Vagabond is around, joking with him and joining him in bullying Gavin. Ray remains the same, seemingly indifferent to the addition to the crew, offering up dry, sarcastic observations and one-liners. Jack talks cars with him, admiring that sleek Zentorno of his, a fitting car for someone like the Vagabond.

Geoff.

Well, Geoff's always been an oddity, but there's a smugness in his smile when his gaze sweeps across the crew, eyes lingering on the Vagabond's form.

And eventually the Vagabond becomes Ryan, becomes even more endearingly dorky and oddly, awkwardly sweet. Fumbling his words when his mouth races ahead of his brain, frowning and scowling at the others when they tease him for it, terrible hypocrites and shameless about it.

The Vagabond becomes Ryan becomes _crew_ , and something shifts in Los Santos at that, takes note.

========

Inevitably the day comes when things go badly, a meet turning sour and violence breaks out.

Gavin makes his way back to Ryan once it's all over and finds him staring at his handiwork, breath low and harsh, knuckles white where they're gripping his gun.

He meets Gavin's eyes for a moment, then deliberately turns his head away and suddenly he's back to being cold and aloof, _dangerous_.

Gavin looks around the room. At the bodies of people who had turned on them, years of loyalty nothing against greed and ambition and the slow-burn of resentment.

Ryan steps back when Gavin reaches out to him. Head snapping around, eyes narrowed behind the mask.

And Gavin.

This isn't new, this kind of betrayal, not in Los Santos at any rate. The Fakes have seen it before, and will continue to do so because that's the price of their own goals, ambitions in a city like this. 

He knows Ryan's seen it before himself, has been hired to take part in it or put an end to it, seen it from the sidelines. 

This is the first time Gavin's seen what Ryan's capable of as the Vagabond, and it's terrifying, but no more so than when it's any of the others, when it's Gavin himself.

“Oh, love,” Gavin says. “How do you think we got where we are?”

They're all monsters to the people of Los Santos, the Fakes, every single one of them.

Capable of such horrible atrocities in the name of protecting the crew, each other. For Geoff's dream of rising to the top and ruling Los Santos, temperamental and merciless city that it is.

Ryan cocks his head and glances at the people he's killed today.

Messy and ugly and lingering, in some instances. Not wholly intentional, but Gavin knows Ryan well enough to know he doesn't regret it, not after what these people had done, tried to do. 

“Not like this, though,” Ryan says, like he's trying to scare Gavin off. Show him he's not like the other Fakes, not _safe_ , whatever that means.

And Gavin, he _laughs_. 

Cold, brittle, and flips the knife he's holding. Easy, smooth, like it's an extension of himself.

Ryan watches it, light catching on the blade as it arcs through the air – tinted gold, because of course it is, the Golden Boy wouldn't possibly settle for less.

“You'd be surprised,” Gavin says, odd little smile playing around his mouth as he catches the knife and tucks it away. “You'd really be surprised, I think.”

========

It's that moment, above them all, that tips things over to the side of decidedly ill-advised between them.

Gavin's always been in Ryan's space, from the moment he first stepped into the penthouse to this.

Sprawled out beside him while some summer blockbuster plays on the television, Ryan methodically breaking down his weapons to clean them with the soothing sound of explosions and gunfire as a backdrop.

Gavin's idly poking at something on his laptop, warm and comfortable and content like this. 

“Bullshit,” Ryan says, the way he counters Gavin's arguments. “Idiots don't know how C4 works.”

Gavin looks at the television where the antagonist is laying out a plan that would never, ever work in real life, and making some sort of declaration of love to his co-star while he's at it. Real multi-tasker, that one.

Sliding a glance at Ryan, he opens a new tab on his browser and does a quick search, eyebrows going up at the result he gets.

“The scriptwriter lives in Los Santos,” Gavin tosses out casually. “Think we should give him a tutorial on the stuff?”

Ryan tilts his head to look down at him, trying for something in the area of Functioning Adult and only making it to Easily Swayed Quasi-Adult.

“We shouldn't,” Ryan says, slowly, reluctantly. “It might bring attention to us.”

Which they don't need or want, with a heist in the offing, but - 

“It's a crime, isn't it?” Gavin asks, waving a hand at the television where the antagonist is wiring some sort of contraption for what looks like an overly cliché heroic sacrifice. “What they're doing with that C4, I mean.”

He can see Ryan wavering, and bites back on his grin because he loves this about Ryan too. How he's up for causing all kinds of chaos and destruction for the _fun_ of it. (For _science_.)

“I mean,” Ryan says, and Gavin can hear the grin in his voice, even if the mask obscures it. “You're not wrong, exactly.”

========

There are other moments, here and there, stolen or borrowed, and all the more precious for it.

Gavin wandering out to the balcony when Ryan can't sleep, eyes sleep-soft and hair an even wilder tangle than usual, and leans up next to him to start a conversation on something he read about online or saw in one of his documentaries. Gavin sweet talking Ryan into joining his team when Michael and Ray challenge him to multiplayer.

It goes from there, a comfortable sort of give and take and compromises on both their parts, and it works.

It _works_.

========

It's inevitable, isn't it.

People look at Gavin, and they see someone easy to manipulate, to break.

Doesn't matter if he's being the Golden Boy or that annoying piece of shit who hangs off the others and makes stupid bets with them. Coaxing or daring them until they give in. The one who wanders around the penthouse in old, worn hoodies and jeans and mismatched socks, looking like any other scruffy twenty-something in the world rather than a hardened criminal and key member of the Fakes.

They see Ramsey's Golden Boy, and zero in on those gold-framed sunglasses, the designer clothes. They don't know it, but Gavin's accent changes when he's playing the Golden Boy. 

Goes posh and arrogant and his body language shifts to accommodate it. 

They see this rich kid running with the big boys and think, _yes, him, he's the weak point_ , and they try to drive a wedge between the Golden Boy and the Fakes. 

Promise him more money than Ramsey could ever offer him, anything he wants, and all it'll cost is a little favor or two. Whisper a few secrets in their ears, and he can have it all. (They never stop to think, to wonder, what would someone like him possibly want?)

They see him when they bust into the safe house he's hunkered down in, Fakes scattered after a heist gone bad. See him with bandages dark with blood, hair flat and listless and dark circles under his eyes, exhausted, and hurting and so, so worried for his crew, his family.

There's a computer in front of him showing feeds from security cameras around Los Santos. Chatter coming from the police radio beside him nothing but white noise. Empty cans of Red Bull, a coffee mug with its contents gone cold hours ago. 

They see him like this, defenses stripped from him and horribly, unbearably human and think, _this one can lead us to the others_.

========

When Gavin's taken, grabbed right out of the safe house and taken to some depressingly cliché warehouse days away from being condemned, he bends but doesn't break.

Offers up little tidbits of truth sprinkled in with the lies he spins easily as breathing. 

Yes, the Vagabond works for the crew. Yes, he's bloody terrifying. No, Gavin doesn't know who he is under the mask, or where he might have gone to ground. (Perception plays a heavy part in the lies Gavin weaves, the bits of truth he doles out like breadcrumbs because people will fill in the blanks themselves as they grasp at them greedily, and do so beautifully.)

And so these people, lesser thugs in a city full of them, latch onto the things they see as weaknesses. See the shadow of bruises on his arms, his neck from miscalculations during the setup for the failed heist, roughhousing with Michael. Sheer clumsiness on Gavin's part.

They see the way he shudders away dramatically from one of them when they press lightly on one dark purple edged in green and painful looking, and conclusions are made.

Empty promises are given, because Gavin knows once they have what they want he won't be leaving this building alive. Promises that Gavin won't need to worry about the Fakes, about the Vagabond ever again if he just helps them out. Give them an idea as to where they might be, just a starting point, they'll handle the rest.

Through it all, these thugs, these idiots, forget that the bedraggled figure they came upon in that safe house is the Golden Boy.

_Ramsey's_ Golden Boy. 

The one who runs with the big boys and hasn't stumbled once, hasn't fallen in all this time.

He carries knives, the Golden Boy. 

Tinted gold, but cold steel at their core. They're gone, now, taken away along with his gun and other assorted weapons, but they missed one. 

Not his weapon of choice, too personal, but needs must and he's alone with the others spread about the city.

The Golden Boy's shoes are lovely, lovely things. Fine leather and elegant stitching and a false compartment in the heels, shoelaces that don't come standard.

But the thing of it is, Gavin hasn't always been the Golden Boy, hasn't always been _Ramsey's_.

Before this, before Los Santos, he was _someone_ , along with Dan, something that only a few people know about. (Gavin's gone to a lot of effort to make sure of that.)

So when these lesser thugs in a city full of them thinks he's just Ramsey's Golden boy, a pretty little _pet_ and nothing more, that's their own mistake, isn't it? Nothing is ever what it seems in this city, ever so simple.

Pain is nothing new, although it is sharp and brutal and has him gagging as he breaks his thumb, slipping his hand free of the metal cuffs. Shaky and unsteady he reaches for his shoes, timer in his head ticking down.

He leaves the shoelaces for now, not long enough for what he needs, and goes for the secret compartment.

The others had laughed when he told them about them, an old trick used by British servicemen and their allies during the Second World War. A bit of history that had fascinated him from the moment he learned about it. 

The room he's been locked up had been used as storage in the past, solid walls and a door with at least one man guarding it on the other side. A handful more wandering the building, left behind to keep an eye on him while the rest went to check the veracity of the information he gave them.

In one heel rests a coil of wire, not Gavin's preferred weapon, but needs must, and he's alone. The others are spread about Los Santos, waiting for the heat to die down from the heist. 

No point in waiting for rescue that won't come if they don't know to mount one.

It doesn't take much to get the guard's attention in the end. 

Gavin borrows a page out of a movie and plays sick, tucking himself just out of sight and darting forwards to loop the garrote around his neck, and _pulls_. Feels the guard's feet start to slip, stumble, from the force of it, hands coming up to scrabble at the wire digging into his throat as panic sets in. 

Pain is singing through his hand, his arm, blinding spear of it in his head and still Gavin holds on. Breathing ragged, his own heart beating a terrified rhythm in his chest as he counts down in his head until the struggling stops. He holds on moment longer, gives the garrote a tug and when there's no reaction relaxes, breath rushing out out of him as he crouches. Patting the guard lightly until he finds his gun, checks to make sure it's loaded and plucks a spare magazine from the inner pocket of his jacket.

Stands and sweeps out into the hall, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the shift in lighting before he moves.

Runs into a thug when he turns a corner and drops him with two shots to the chest. Stepping over him as he continues on, movements quicker now that the others have been alerted. It's less a running gunfight and more of a twisted, deadly game of hide and seek.

He takes out one more before things take a turn, bullet tearing through his side and he ducks for cover a moment too late. Draws in air like he's drowning, teeth gritted and fire along his ribs, gunshots pinging off the rusted out machine he's hiding behind.

“Come on out, Goldie!” someone calls, hard and mocking and no mercy in it. “I just want to talk!”

Gavin scoffs at that as another bullet sends up sparks too close to his head and he inches deeper into cover. Head pounding, body at its limits but still not done here, nowhere near close.

“Bloody hell,” Gavin whispers, resting his head against the hulking machine at his back and reaching for focus.

The bullet wound is just a graze, bleeding steadily and painful. Sapping his already flagging energy. He won't last long like this, might not make it out of this damned warehouse, and the thought burns. 

Cold and sharp, an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with the others, crew and friend and family, all.

There's a lull in the gunfire, enough to have him cautiously hopeful, last little sliver of it left to him, and hears cursing. Low and angry and frustrated and then stomping feet, heedless of potential danger as they stride toward him.

“Last fucking chance, _Goldie_ ,” and there's arrogance in it, confidence that Gavin's out of ammunition, is at a disadvantage. 

Smaller than the men who took him, lean and wiry against their looming bulk, and men like them always look at Gavin and see someone weaker than them, someone they can break.

Gavin smiles to himself, devoid of humor, and waits. Tracks footsteps and pictures the layout of the room in his head, obstacles and cover and angles. Shifts to circle around the machinery at his back, edging around it to get a peek, a glimpse, and sees the thug half-turned away, and takes his chance.

He's decent with a gun, when adrenaline and fear aren't present, when his life isn't at stake, and shades worse when it is.

Misses the first shot, and the second merely clips the man. Knocking him back a step, but he's already firing, low from the hip, spitting curses and threats and stumbling like a drunkard.

The third shot is a mistake, jolt of pain jerking the gun higher so the bullet his the man's neck and passes through in a spray of blood and gore, gurgling wetly as he drops, and Gavin's hand trembles as he lowers his gun.

“ _Christ._ ”

Gavin turns sharply at that, the sound of running footsteps and harsh breathing, vision spinning, blurring and -

“Gavin? Gav?”

And there's Michael, and Geoff and the others, Ryan moving forward to check the man Gavin just shot, sliding a concerned look at Gavin when he walks past, shoulder brushing Gavin's.

“What,” Gavin stops, has to clear his throat because his voice is rough and scratchy and hurts. “What are you doing here?”

Because they shouldn't be here. Should be tucked away nice and safe in their own safe houses, boltholes, until the support team sounds the all clear, not. 

Not chasing after Gavin and the messes he manages to get himself into, even if he doesn't know who these people are or why they took him. 

Well, besides the obvious, but there are a lot of people in Los Santos after the Fakes, hoping to bring them down and the aftermath of a heist gone bad would have seemed like opportunity knocking to them.

Michael and Geoff exchange a look, Ray mutters something to Jack who rolls his eyes before he goes to Gavin. Eyes meeting his, asking for permission before he starts looking him over for injuries, expression darkening at what he finds.

“Ryan.” Geoff says, as he surveys the room, going for calm, even though it's clear he's angry. Hands shaking as he tucks them neatly in his pockets to hide it. Eyes following Jeremy and Trevor as they slide out of the shadows, coordinating with the support team to make sure the rest of the building is clear. “Asshole got antsy, went looking for us.”

Ryan grunts, rising to his feet and walks over. 

“Well in my defense,” he says, like he always does. “It was a good idea, wasn't it.”

Geoff's eyes flash, angry and annoyed that Ryan didn't fucking listen, knew better than to run around nilly willy with the cops and half of Los Santos after them. When they didn't know who they could trust outside the crew.

“We're gonna have a talk about that later,” Geoff decides, and when Jeremy and Trevor get the all clear, gives a sharp nod. “Let's just get the hell out of here before this place falls down on us.”

========

“Ray and I were going to swap the wire out with condoms and lube packets to get you back for last week,” Michael says out of nowhere when they're back at one of the safe houses. “Good thing we didn't, huh?”

Gavin blinks at Michael, slow, because the world is blurry and soft and whatever they gave him when they patched him up is lovely. 

“Might have made escaping a bit more difficult, yeah,” Gavin says.

He hasn't made a habit of checking the secret compartment of his shoes the way he does with his weapons, his parachute. Used to think of it more of a novelty than anything else, result of several weeks worth of research, and trial and error that cost him several pairs of shoes until he got it right.

Michael smiles, gently ruffling Gavin's hair as he gets up to leave. “Get some sleep, idiot,” he says fondly, and then it's Gavin and Ryan and a bit of awkwardness.

“You make a lovely pillow Ryan,” Gavin says, words slurring faintly. “Lovely, Ryan.”

Ryan snorts, careful as he makes himself more comfortable.

The couch is an abomination, ugly fabric pattern and even uglier texture, but it's soft and comfortable and Gavin honestly doubts he could make it to one of the bedrooms in his state. Ryan would help, lovely, lovely, Ryan, but then he'd leave, or sit silent, vaguely creepy vigil beside the small bed, and that is unthinkable.

“You're going to regret this,” Ryan says, because he knows Gavin, how he'll complain about the crick in his neck, aching joints, and sore back on top of his other hurts.

“It's possible,” Gavin says, too tired to care, passing it off as a problem for his future self to handle. (That's caused him enough headaches in the past, certainly, but right now he honestly doesn't care.)

Ryan laughs, settling down against him, “Yeah, just try to remember that tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is forever away, and full of things, _concerns_. 

The failed heist, and the men who took Gavin, and a hundred other things he can't get a firm grasp just now, thanks to a lovely mix of painkillers and exhaustion, so he stops trying. Lets go of the worry that was steadily eating away at him the moment the heist went wrong, bullets and yelling and Geoff ordering them to get out, for fuck's sake, fucking get out and find somewhere safe to hole up.

Ryan sighs, fingers combing through Gavin's hair, blunt nails scratching just so, and goes boneless. Thinks he'd purr, if he was a cat.

“God, you would, wouldn't you?” Ryan asks, laughter in his voice, and Gavin realizes he might be speaking out loud.

“You are,” Ryan says, so very, very amused.

Gavin hums, eyelids growing heavier and thinks he manages a passable retort before sleep rolls him under, Ryan a reassuring presence at his back.


End file.
